by Cara Hunter
‘She’s already gone. I went back just now and she wasn’t there.’
‘But she’s still coming in to make that statement?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You got her number, right – you can call her?’
Quinn sighs. ‘The one she gave me is unobtainable.’
Gislingham’s getting really pissed off now. ‘Oh, that’s fucking marvellous – so we now have no idea where she is, and no way of contacting her, and she could be the only witness we have against Gardiner.’
Quinn takes a deep breath. ‘There’s something else. I looked at the phone – her texts and stuff. It was just for a minute – she was in the shower –’
‘Shit, mate, when in a hole, stop effing digging – you need permission to do that, you know you do. You could lose your sodding job over this –’
‘I know that, all right?’ snaps Quinn. ‘It was just – there – and now –’
There’s a silence.
‘And now what?’
‘Now I know Gardiner’s lying. Pippa was texting him at least a week before Hannah’s disappearance.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s not such a big deal, is it – she was looking after his kid – she was bound to text him sometimes –’
‘Not like that, Gis. Trust me.’
Trust you to get us into this sodding mess, more like, thinks Gislingham. ‘So what do we do now? They probably wouldn’t give us a warrant for her phone even if we had the right number because we can’t claim she’s any sort of suspect – even if she was screwing Gardiner she has a rock-solid alibi for the morning Hannah disappeared. And we can’t let on what we’re really looking for because that’ll just land you in the shit.’
‘Look, are you going to help me or what?’
Gislingham sighs as loudly as he can. ‘I don’t have much of a choice, do I?’
* * *
* * *
It’s just after five and I’m with Baxter at the tech firm who do our forensic voice-recognition work. We’re in front of a bank of computer screens. I haven’t got a clue what half this stuff is for. The analyst sitting beside us doesn’t look much older than fifteen.
‘OK,’ he says after a moment, ‘I’ve got the audio loaded now, so let’s have a listen.’
24/06/2015 06:50:34
It’s me. Where are you? I’ll have to leave soon. Call me, will you?
There’s a muffled noise, some clicks and then the line goes dead. She sounds exasperated, on the edge of anger. The analyst goes back and plays it again, and Hannah Gardiner’s frustration maps itself on to the screen in a series of peaks and troughs. Loudness, pitch, intensity. The analyst sits back, then turns towards me.
‘The problem is she says so little. It’s only fourteen words, and it’s pretty distorted. But I cleaned it up as much as I can and compared it to some other material which we know is definitely Hannah Gardiner’s voice. Reports on the BBC website, that sort of thing.’
He turns and pulls up more wave patterns on to the screen. ‘See – all three of these are obviously the same person – you can tell that with the naked eye, even without doing the analytics.’
He drags the pattern made by the voicemail over and lines it up with the other samples. ‘And here’s your voicemail.’ He sits back. ‘Like I said, fourteen words isn’t really enough to make a definitive match, but for my money, it’s her.’
‘So she was alive and well, in Crescent Square, at 6.50 that morning?’
He nods. ‘Looks like it.’
* * *
* * *
‘Quinn? It’s me.’
Gislingham is out of breath, his voice coming in gasps. In the background Quinn can hear traffic.
‘Where are you?’
‘On the High. I was coming back from Cowley and I think I just saw Pippa Walker. If it wasn’t her it’s someone who looks bloody like her.’
Quinn grips the phone. ‘Where – where did you see her?’
‘At the bus-stop by Queen’s Lane. I’m there now – I came back as soon as I could turn round but she’d already gone.’
‘Did she have bags with her – a suitcase or anything?’
‘Not that I could see. Just a carrier bag, I think.’
‘So if we’re lucky she’s still in Oxford.’
‘I’ll see if we can get some CCTV. We may be able to work out what bus she got on.’
‘Cheers, mate. I owe you one.’
‘Yeah,’ says Gislingham heavily. ‘I know.’
* * *
* * *
Sent: Fri 05/05/2017, 18.05
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: DNA results: 33 Frampton Road
I’m about to call you about this, but in case I don’t get through, here are the salient points:
Shed
We double-checked the results for the blanket used to wrap the body of Hannah Gardiner, and there is no DNA from either Donald Walsh or William Harper. The only DNA aside from hers was – as previously stated – that of her husband, Robert Gardiner, and her son, Toby Gardiner.
Cellar
The young woman’s bed yielded DNA from two males: saliva from Donald Walsh, and both saliva and semen from William Harper.
Child
We ran a DNA test on the samples obtained with the assistance of Social Services, and cross-checked them against some small blood spots found on the child’s bedding. The boy in the cellar is William Harper’s son.
* * *
* * *
I’ve just got to the ward at the John Rad when the call from Challow comes through, which earns me a disapproving look from the nurse.
‘You’re supposed to turn those things off, Inspector.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, but this is important.’
And it is.
‘You’re sure – no question?’ I take a deep breath. ‘Right. I’m at the hospital. I’ll talk to her. See if I can get her to confirm it.’
The nurse is looking at me with pointed impatience. ‘Are you ready now?’
‘Yes, sorry.’
* * *
*
It’s less than forty-eight hours since I last saw her, but Vicky looks a lot better. Someone’s helped her wash her hair, and she’s sitting in the chair by the window in a pair of jeans and a big jumper. There’s a magazine on her lap and she suddenly looks re-attached to the world. An ordinary girl again. I tip my hat silently to whoever it was did all this, and when I catch the nurse’s eye I know it was her. She smiles.
‘I think Vicky’s feeling a bit better today. We’ve even managed to persuade her to eat something.’
I gesture towards the chair by the bed. ‘Can I sit by you for a few minutes, Vicky?’
She flashes me a look, then nods. I drag the chair a little closer and sit down.
‘Have you been able to write anything down for us?’
She flushes a little and looks away.
‘Vicky still hasn’t been able to speak,’ says the nurse. ‘We think it’s better not to push it. Take things slowly.’
‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ I say, trying to look reassuring. ‘But I’ve just had a call from our forensics lab, and if you think you’re up to it I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Would that be OK?’
She looks at me. Makes no movement.
‘There’s one thing we need to be really clear about: whether there was just one person who attacked you or whether there were two of them. We can’t tell for certain from the DNA results we’ve had, and I’m sure you understand how important it is that we know for sure, one way or the other. So can you tell me, Vicky? Was it just one man – no one else?’
/>
She stares at me a moment. Her cheeks are becoming flushed again. And then she nods.
I get out my phone, find the image and show it to her.
‘Was it this man?’
She looks at me, then at the picture, then shakes her head.
I change the image.
‘This one?’
She gasps a little, and puts her hand to her mouth. The tears come.
‘Yes,’ she whispers, her voice hoarse with long silence. ‘Yes.’
* * *
* * *
Quinn – found that CCTV from the bus-stop. Pippa was on the #5 towards Blackbird Leys. I’ve got the reg number so you shd be able to track down the driver. He’d prob remember her
Cheers Gis. Like I said I owe you one
It occurred to me – the #5 goes via the business park – cd she have been going to see Gardiner?
Def worth asking him. Cheers mate
* * *
* * *
‘So where are we now, Adam?’
Superintendent Harrison’s office. Saturday morning. There are few good reasons to find yourself in here at the weekend, but on a scale of one to ten on the discomfiture scale this is probably only about five. And to be fair, he does need to know.
‘Vicky identified Harper as her abductor, sir. And the forensic results back that up.’
‘What about Walsh’s DNA on the girl’s bedding?’
‘He did tell us he’d stayed over once or twice, and Challow says saliva could have got on the bedding if that had been on the bed he used. It’s not impossible.’
‘So the abduction was Harper acting alone. No collusion from Walsh at all.’
‘It’s looking like it. Vicky didn’t recognize him.’
‘All the same, this is a man who’s never been violent before. Do you still think Harper’s dementia was a factor – somehow triggered by her unfortunate resemblance to his wife?’
I take a deep breath. I’d been so sure it was Harper, but then the journal convinced me otherwise, and ever since then I’ve been thinking of Harper as a sad old man exploited by Donald Walsh for his own twisted ends. But he’s not. He can’t be.
‘Actually, sir, I think it’s a lot more complex than that. Harper may be showing signs of dementia now, but three years ago, it would have been a very different story. Look at Vicky’s journal – there’s no suggestion there that the man who imprisoned her was in a vulnerable mental state. I think he knew exactly what he was doing. And yes, Vicky’s resemblance to Priscilla could have been a factor, but not out of confusion. Out of vindictiveness. Out of some perverted idea of revenge.’
‘But didn’t he say he was frightened of the cellar – that he could hear noises down there?’
‘I suspect that’s because the dementia is getting worse. He may even have forgotten the girl was there. That would also explain why the food and water were running out.’
Harrison sits back in his chair. ‘I’m still struggling to get my head round this. On the face of it, Walsh seemed a lot more likely.’
‘I know, sir. I thought so too.’
‘But DNA doesn’t lie. The boy is Harper’s son.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Speaking of DNA, where are you with Gardiner?’
‘We’ve questioned him again. We have the partial fingerprint on the tape and some traces of his DNA on the blanket the body was wrapped in, but it’s all just circumstantial – none of it would stand up in court. Though it appears he may have been violent to the childminder. We’re trying to find out if it’s part of a pattern.’
‘May have been? Haven’t you spoken to her about it?’
‘Not yet, sir. She’s proving hard to track down.’
I see him frown and I curse Quinn.
‘But you’re not ruling Harper out – it’s still possible he committed both crimes – the girl in the cellar and Hannah Gardiner?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s still possible.’
‘And would the CPS pursue a case against him, given his medical condition?’
‘I don’t know – we haven’t got to that stage yet.’
‘But he’s in suitable accommodation, in the meantime?’
I nod. ‘A secure dementia unit near Banbury. Whatever happens, he won’t be going back to Frampton Road. The house will probably end up being sold.’
‘Well, at least the Thames Valley Police will have one satisfied customer.’
‘Sir?’
‘That tosser who bought the pile next door.’
* * *
*
I’m starting to get the distinct impression that Quinn is avoiding me, and when I find him sitting in his Audi in the car park, eating a sandwich, I know I’m right.
I tap on the window. ‘Quinn?’
He winds it down, hurrying to finish his mouthful. ‘Yup. What is it, boss?’
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘You know. Lunch.’
I give him a ‘yeah, right’ look, and he does at least have the decency to look sheepish.
‘Have you brought Pippa Walker in yet?’
‘Ah, bit of a problem there, boss.’
So that’s it.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘We can’t track her down.’
I stare at him until he stops chewing and stuffs the sandwich back in its bag.
‘I hear there are these things called mobile phones –’
He colours. ‘I know – but we don’t have the number. The one she gave me is unobtainable. Sorry. Sir.’
I don’t usually get a ‘sir’ from Quinn unless he knows he’s fucked up, so he appears to have decided to take his medicine on the chin. Mixed metaphor, but you get my drift.
‘We took a statement from her in 2015 – there’d be an address on that.’
He nods. ‘Arundel Street.’
‘Well, start round there. It’d make sense she’d go back to somewhere she knew.’
‘Right,’ says Quinn, and starts his engine. ‘Don’t worry. It’s my cock-up. I’ll sort it.’
* * *
* * *
‘PC Somer? This is Dorothy Simmons, from Holman Insurance. We spoke before, about Dr Harper’s collection?’
‘Ah, yes, thank you for getting back to me, especially at the weekend.’
‘I’ve had a look at the photos you sent, and compared them to what we have on file for Dr Harper. And you’re right – they’re definitely some of the same items.’
‘And are they valuable?’
‘Oh yes. When Dr Harper had the collection assessed in 2008 it was worth somewhere in the region of £65,000. In fact, I’ve been trying to get him to have the valuation updated – I was worried he was underinsured. But he never seems to answer his correspondence.’
‘That’s really helpful, Miss Simmons. Thank you.’
‘There was one more thing. I don’t know how significant it is, but Mr Walsh only has some of the netsuke. Some appear to be missing.’
‘Are they particularly expensive ones?’
‘One is. But the rest are probably the least valuable of the lot. I don’t know if that’s significant.’
Quite possibly, thinks Somer. If Quinn’s right and Walsh was only interested in filching the pricey ones. So much for ‘sentimental value’ and ‘family legacy’. But all the same, it does raise one interesting question.
Where are the rest?
* * *
* * *
After a wild goose chase in Arundel Street Quinn’s day is showing no sign of improving any time soon. When he gets back to the station at just gone three, the first person he sees in the corridor is Gislingham.
‘Have you found that bus driver yet?’
Gislingham looks at him. It’s you
r mess, he thinks, you bloody fix it. ‘No,’ he says out loud. ‘I’ve got stuff to do. My own stuff.’
Quinn runs a hand through his hair. He’s proud of his hair and spends a lot on it. Which pisses Gislingham off even though he knows it shouldn’t. Though the bald patch he’s just started to notice in the bathroom mirror probably has something to do with that.
‘Right,’ says Quinn. ‘Sorry. It’s just I’ve got Fawley on my back.’
Yeah, but not half as much as you would if he knew the truth, thinks Gislingham.
He turns to the coffee machine and pretends to be debating between the cappuccino and the latte and chooses what he always has (which tastes the same as all the rest anyway). Then he turns to face his DS.
‘Look, I’ll help you out when I can, all right?’
Quinn looks at him; half of him wants to bawl Gis out, the other half is reminding him that he owes him. The second half wins.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK. Thanks.’
* * *
* * *
‘So do you think you’ll be able to get back to them by close of play Monday?’
Alex Fawley switches her mobile from one hand to the other. It’s one of her colleagues, chasing something for their most important client which should have been sent by Friday afternoon. Alex has been trying to avoid having to hand the case over to her assistant, but juggling her workload and a toddler isn’t easy; it was bad enough when it was Jake, but now –
‘Alex?’
‘Sorry. I was just checking the diary. Yes, that should be fine.’
She must sound distracted though, because he asks her again; his doubt is audible.
‘You’re sure? I mean, we can always –’
‘No, no. Really. It’s fine.’
There’s a crash then, from the other room. And a wail that spirals into a shriek.
‘Jesus, Alex, what the hell was that?’
‘Nothing – nothing. I have decorators in. They must have dropped something. Look, I’m sorry, Jonathan, but I have to go. I’ll have the documents to you in plenty of time, I promise.’
